Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Ruby

I open a bottle of chilled sparkling water and take a long sip in an effort to buy myself some time. Now we’re getting to the stuff I don’t want to talk about. The stuff that brings back horrific memories that still haunt me.

When I glance up at him, I’m struck by the depth of compassion I see in his dark eyes. He knows it hurts me to talk about this, and he feels bad for asking.

The oven timer goes off, so I pull the pizza crust out of the oven and start spreading the sauce. “The world is a cruel and dangerous place.”

“It certainly can be,” he says. He sighs heavily. “Ruby, I’m really sorry about your mother. Edward told me how she died.”

My throat tightens, and I swallow against a painful lump. For a moment, I don’t speak. I can’t. I don’t want to think about what happened to her, let alone talk about it. Tears prick my eyes, and I blink against the pain.

“I can’t imagine how horrible it must have been for you,” he says. “You were so young.”

“I was eight.”

“Your godfather told me you witnessed her death.”

Feeling sick, I nod. “He shot her right in front of me. I was sitting in the back seat of the car, already buckled into my seat. She was in the process of getting in the driver’s seat when he grabbed her and pulled her out. When she started to fight back, he shot her.” I shudder at the memory. “He didn’t even hesitate.”

When I don’t say anything more, he fills in the rest for me. “The assailant took off in the car with you in the backseat?”

“Yes. After driving around for hours, he finally let me out at a shopping center. I think he panicked. I don’t think he intended to kidnap me. He kept muttering to himself, over and over, about what he was going to do now. Nothing he said made any sense. He was probably on something.”

Miguel’s eyes soften. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”

“I wasn’t hurt physically, no. But emotionally he took everything from me.” I meet his penetrating gaze for a split second before looking away. I head to the fridge to retrieve fresh basil leaves and mozzarella.

While I’m putting on the last of the toppings, he asks, “Who else do you interact with, besides your father, Edward, and your neighbor Darren? Anyone else?”

“No, not really.”

“I’ll need to pay him a visit.”

“Who?” I ask.

“Darren.”

That’s a surprise. “Why?”

“He lives next door to you, and he interacts with you more than anyone else does. That automatically makes him a suspect in my book. At the very least, I have to rule him out.”

I shake my head. “It’s not Darren.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Darren wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s—I promise you, it’s not him.”

“In this business, I’ve learned that sometimes the ones you least suspect are the ones who pose the most danger.”

I slide the pizza back into the oven and set the timer. “It’s definitely not Darren.” I laugh. “He’s an accountant, not a stalker.”

“Tell me what this person does—the one terrorizing you.”

“He throws rocks at my window at night when I’m in bed—tiny rocks, more like pebbles, nothing big enough to break the glass. Just big enough to make noise and keep me up at night.”

“Anything else?”

“He leaves things on my welcome mat in the night. I find them in the morning.”

“Things? Such as?”

“It varies.” I shrug. “Sometimes it’s a bouquet of dead flowers. Sometimes it’s notes. But sometimes it’s a dead animal. Roadkill mostly, I think. Squirrels and birds that are half-decomposed.” I shudder. “Those are the worst. The smell, and the blood.”

“What kind of notes?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are they handwritten or printed?”

“Printed, off a computer, in a large bold font.”

“What do they say?”

“They say things like ‘we should be together,’ ‘I love you,’ and ‘you’re mine.’ Stuff like that.”

“Do you still have any of the notes?”

“No. As soon as I get one, I tear it up and throw it away.”

“What do you do with the dead animals?”

“I put them in trash bags and leave them outside my door. Darren takes the bags to the trash chute for me.”

Miguel frowns. “Darren again.”

“It’s not Darren.” I sigh, not understanding why Miguel is so fixated on my neighbor. “He’s a nice guy. He’s the closest thing I have to a friend.”

“What about the apartment manager? Do you ever interact with him?”

“Not if I can help it. His name is Rick, but I hardly ever see him. My rent gets paid automatically each month, so unless something in the apartment needs fixing, I never have any reason to talk to him. And believe me, that’s a good thing. He’s awful.”

Miguel frowns. “What do you mean, he’s awful? Has Rick ever done or said anything inappropriate to you?”

“He’s just an awful person. He’s been in my apartment a few times since I moved in to fix things, and he always insinuates that the problems are my fault. He resents having to fix anything—clogged drains, loose outlets, leaky windows. He’s nosey, and he’s in everyone’s business. He says no to everything. Some of the tenants wanted to decorate their doors, and he said no. No one likes him.”

“Do you talk to any other neighbors besides Darren?”

“No.”

I finally muster the courage to meet Miguel’s gaze. “Do you think this is all in my head?”

“I don’t have an opinion yet. I need evidence before I can make any kind of determination.”

“My father thinks it’s all in my head. He thinks I’m crazy. Or that I’m making this up for attention. Trust me, the last thing I want is attention.”

“From what I hear, your father’s not the most open-minded person.”

I chuckle. “That’s an understatement.”

“What about Edward? He seems like a great guy.”

“He is. He’s the only one who gives me unconditional support. My mom met both my dad and Edward when she was in college. In fact, she dated both of them. In the end, she married my dad, but still, she and Edward remained close friends, even after they all graduated. I don’t think Edward and my father liked each other very much, then or now.”

“Why do you say that?”

“My parents fought a lot, and sometimes it was about Edward. I would hide in my bedroom closet during their many screaming matches, but I could still hear bits and pieces of what they were arguing about. Edward’s name came up a lot.”

“Your mom and Edward… was there ever anything going on between them? They sound like they were pretty close.”

“I don’t think so. Edward and my mother truly loved each other, but it was definitely a platonic sort of love. I think she got more emotional support from him than from my father, and my dad resented it.”

When the kitchen timer goes off, Miguel grabs the oven mitt. “I’ll get it.”

I step back as he opens the oven and pulls out the pizza pan. He sets it on top of the stove.

While the pizza cools a bit, Miguel offers to help me set the table. It’s weird because I’m not used to having help. I hand him plates and silverware, and he puts them on the table.

Miguel opens the fridge. “What would you like to drink?”

“I have sparkling water. I’ve got beer in there if you want one. Help yourself.”

“Thanks, but no. I’m on duty. No alcohol. Sparkling water is fine.”

I guess that means he won’t be drinking any alcohol for the foreseeable future—at least as long as he’s here. He may regret that.

After I cut the pizza, Miguel brings over our plates, and I lay two slices on each one. He carries our plates back to the table, and I grab our drinks. I’m struck by how well we work together, how naturally it comes. It’s kind of nice having help.

Miguel takes a bite of his pizza and moans dramatically, making me laugh. “This is really good. You could definitely give the pizzerias in town a run for their money.”

“Thanks. It’s no Gino’s or Giordano’s, but it hits the spot.”

Miguel initiates conversation at the table, asking me about the neighborhood, asking me how I like Wicker Park. He tells me he has friends in the neighborhood—a woman, Molly, who owns an art studio. “You should meet her sometime. I think you’d like her. The book I was reading earlier was written by her husband, Jamie McIntyre. He’s a former Navy SEAL, now an author of military thrillers.”

After we’re done devouring the pizza, we clear the table and carry our dishes to the sink.

“Do you prefer to wash or dry?” he asks.

“You’re offering to help?”

“Of course. In my family, everyone pitches in. I’ve been washing dishes since I was tall enough to reach the sink.”

“Thanks. I’ll wash, if you don’t mind.” I pull a clean kitchen towel out of a drawer and hand it to him. Then I fill the sink with hot soapy water and start washing. “Do you have a big family?” I don’t know why I’m asking him personal questions, but it’s so easy to talk to him.

“I’m the oldest of eight kids—four boys and four girls. Then there’s my parents, all four grandparents, and more aunts, uncles, and cousins than I can count. Most of us live here in Chicago. We’re a pretty tight knit group.”

“I can’t imagine having that much family around. I’m an only child, so it’s just me and my—my dad. And mostly now it’s just me.” I frown. “For my birthday last year, Edward brought me a cake he made himself. My father forgot entirely.”

Miguel’s smile falls. “That’s awful.”

Mentally, I shake myself. “No, it’s fine.”

“Are you done working for the day?” he asks as he dries one of our plates and places it in the cupboard.

“Yes. The painting needs to dry thoroughly before I can seal it.”

“So, how do you spend your evenings?” he asks. “What do you do for fun?”

“I either read or watch something on TV. How about you?”

“Same,” he says. “In my line of work, I don’t get a lot of free time, so when I do, I’m usually chilling in my apartment, reading, watching something, or working out. My buddies and I have a standing thing we do Friday evenings after work. We meet up at Tanks—it’s a local pub.”

I imagine Miguel has a lot of friends. He’s friendly and easy to talk to. It dawns on me that today’s Friday. “Tonight’s Friday. Are you going to meet your friends?”

“No, not tonight. I’m sticking right here with you.”

“I’m sorry you’re going to miss seeing your friends this evening.”

“It’s okay.” He dries the other plate and puts it in the cupboard. “You’re more important.”

When I glance up at him, I find him gazing down at me. “I am?”

He nods. “Yes, you are.”

I don’t know if it’s his words or the way he’s looking at me, but my pulse starts racing again, but this time in a good way.